At His Anguish, the Pale Moon Cracked in Two
by LustOnMyFingers
Summary: Shortly after arriving at Winterfell, Daenerys lies awake one night, restlessly admiring her lover as he sleeps. Jon's insecurities begin to show after he's jolted awake. Rather than let him wallow, Daenerys decides he shouldn't have to face the pain of his memories alone.


**This was written for the Jonerys Week event over on Tumblr (March 4th-10th), and the prompt is "Free Choice"**

 **As a fic writer, I'm *very* grateful for my readers. 47 chapters later, since September, one reader stands out as arguably my most dedicated, still posting near-instant comments every time I update. So I asked Timelord2162 to choose a prompt for me, and here's what he had to say: _"I do have an idea for a one-shot. Jon and Dany talking about his scars. I KNOW... it's been done in some fics but I would like to see your take on it."_**

 **Alright, Timelord. Done and done! This one's for you! Thanks for sticking** **by me since the beginning, I hope you like it.**

* * *

Though she'd been looking forward to seeing it, the arrival at Winterfell had been something of a somber occasion for Daenerys. Though Jon's family had been more welcoming to her and her men than she'd expected, she couldn't help feeling a small sting of envy that Jon had both a childhood home to return to, as well as several loved ones anxiously awaiting his return.

The time she'd spent aboard her ship with Jon, night after night, had managed to trick her into feeling like a girl again, with little-to-no responsibility other than tireless travel and sleep. Even their stay at White Harbor, though brief, had felt like a recess from reality. So had the fortnight or so they'd spent camping along the road to his home, using the cover of darkness to pursue secret, late-night trysts—sneaking into one another's tents in a fit of hushed laughter and clumsy lovemaking. Their antics had resumed, more or less, once arriving at Winterfell, though it'd only been a handful of nights now, into their stay.

Skin glowing by firelight, they lie together, a clammy and knotted heap of limbs and sweat-tangled hair. Daenerys had come to rely on the steady rise and fall of Jon's chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat, even coming to familiarize herself with the rare palpitation or two that came in the wake of their more intense lovemaking sessions. Tonight, however, his body did nothing to lull her to sleep.

For a while, she examined his room. While it felt distinctly his, it hadn't been decorated, nor had it even felt lived-in. She could discern nothing of his past in this room, or much of his present, either. He had explained that it wasn't the same room he'd grown up in, and that after they'd taken Winterfell back, he had no interest in revisiting his past in such a way, afraid of the toll it might take on him. _Emotionally_ , she had deduced on her own, as he was a man of few words.

Still, it had been one of the few personal admissions he'd made, striking her like a slap to the face, realizing that although they'd mapped just about every contour and crevice of each other's bodies, they hadn't done the same of their minds. She knew little of Jon's past, other than that he was a man who could command the largest of all the seven realms on merit alone. Perhaps his blood had something to do with it, too, but certainly not his name—always so insistent he was _no_ Stark. Perhaps that was true, to some extent, though he was Stark in all but name.

Much of the man underneath her fingertips had remained a mystery, most of what she'd learned of him came from the intense scrutiny of his character and his actions. In a way, she liked that. He was an enigma for her to ponder and attempt to solve. In another way, it made her feel dejected and lonely. Foolish, really. Nevertheless, she wished to know him outside and in—all of the secret spots along his body she could use to unravel him, what he was like as a child, how he came to be the impressive man he was today, to see him wrinkle and weather with age. Perhaps most of all, however, she wished to know how he got those scars...

Selfishly, she dragged the furs down from his body, taking in the fresh sight of them. How long ago had it happened? Who had done this to him? How could he have survived any of it?

Seven in all, there were. She'd counted them dozens of times, if not hundreds. Five across his stomach, and a sixth just above the rigid furrow of his hips. Most haunting of all, the sickle-shaped scar over his heart. Carefully, she lowered a palm to the crescent wound, her fingers splayed across his milky flesh. She measured his heartbeat. It was strong, and therefore it soothed her, as much as it could from underneath a mortal wound. In another way, every glimpse she'd caught of his marred skin served to remind her how fragile life was, and how lucky she had been to have him here with her now. Already, she couldn't imagine continuing on without him—a thought that made her feel utterly vulnerable. A dangerous revelation, _indeed_.

Restless as the night dragged on, her gaze hung on his lips a while, before floating upward to his eyes. Admiring the thick coat of lashes as they fluttered with dreams, she imagined where he was, or who with. _Probably the Night King_ , she reminded herself, unable to forget his strange fixation on the otherworldly monster, the same one whose blue-eyes had since haunted her dreams, as well.

Suddenly, his body lurched as he jolted awake, his eyes suddenly wide. Blinking the bleariness away, he then took stock of his surroundings, sighing with relief upon finding a warm fireplace, and a warm woman in his arms. His dry lips parted enough for him to flick his tongue out to wet them, his eyebrow curling with suspicion.

"You starin' while I sleep?" he asked with a gravelly rasp.

"Maybe a little," she admitted, averting her gaze from his dark and inquisitive stare.

For a moment or two, they simply lie together, with only the sound of the snapping logs in the fireplace, as well as their breathing, to counter the silence. Finally, she brushed her hand away from the scar she'd been palming.

Jon sighed dejectedly. At that, her eyes met his again, hoping to discern whether she had been the cause of it. His glare all but confirming her suspicion.

"Let's get this over with," he said with another heavy sigh. "Quickly."

His words hastened her pulse, dread encumbering her heart, afraid to ask, but even more afraid not to. "Get _what_ over with?"

"My scars."

"What about them?"

"You tell me," he said in an accusatory way that seemed to dismantle the months of progress they'd made with each other, his tone laced with impatience.

"I don't know what you mean..."

"You were starin' at them. _Again_."

Daenerys assumed she'd been mostly discreet when stealing peeks of his troublesome collection of fatal wounds, though it had always been apparent, in a way, that he felt uncomfortable having them examined to _any_ degree, however small.

"I didn't mean-"

"Perhaps not," he coldly cut her off.

Slowly, she retracted her hand from his skin entirely, tucking it tightly against her chest, instead, fighting the urge to cower.

"I'm sorry," he sighed, seemingly unhappy with both his behavior and her body language. "They're hideous, I know that's what you must think."

"They're a part of you, and so they can't be hideous," she whispered. "Whatever happened to you, that's what's hideous. Whoever did this to you— _Hideous_."

He drew air into his lungs in an almost reverse-sigh. "What if they were justified?"

Admittedly, it was a thought she hadn't even considered. _Justified?_ While Jon and his behavior had irked her in more ways than one when they'd first met, he'd always remained level-headed, respectful and infuriatingly above _petty squabbles_ , as he liked to call them. She hadn't even considered he might've, or _could've_ done anything to deserve a knife to the heart.

"Perhaps I don't know you as well as I'd like," she began, trying to carefully choose her words, "But I know your heart."

Hesitantly, she brought her hand to his curved scar once more before continuing. "Knives—or weapons of _any_ kind—have no place anywhere near it, or _any_ part of you. There is no justification for even a single one of these marks, of that I am _certain_ ," she whispered, flicking her eyes and nodding toward his abdomen before, reluctantly, meeting his gaze.

His eyes were cold and dark, and lined in pain.

"I'm not sure you possess even one selfish bone in this body of yours, Jon Snow," she said, playfully patting his skin in an effort to lighten the mood.

"I'm not so sure about _that_ ," he said as a flicker of flirtation rinsed over his features, smoothing some of the creasing and almost erasing years of age from his skin. _Good_ , she thought, _that's a start_.

Dany then smirked, " _No?_ "

"What about when I knocked on your door? The first night aboard your ship."

Passionately, she shook her head no. "I _beg_ to disagree."

"How could you _possibly_ disagree?"

Finally, his lips parted with a small, hopeful smile. They'd made love a hundred times or more—several times a night if they could manage it—and yet they'd done so little reflecting on any of it.

"You knew how badly I wanted you," she coyly explained. "And now that I know you better, I could even see you doing it strictly as a favor to me."

He shook the bed with a hearty laugh, "I assure you, Daenerys, it was _entirely_ selfish."

" _It wasn't_ ," she insisted, "I've been with selfish men before. I know the difference."

This time, it was a flicker of envy that rucked up his features, stripping away some of the playfulness she'd rightfully earned.

"Does that make you _jealous_ , Jon Snow?" she smirked with possessive delight.

He groaned. " _Maybe_. More-so uncomfortable."

"Why's that?"

"I don't know why. Somethin' irrational I can't control. The same thing that carried my feet to your door that night."

A flutter tickled her heart upon hearing such an admission.

"How could I possibly fault the very urge responsible for bringing me so much happiness these past several months?"

She smiled as her mind flipped through their entire history like a book of illustrations—until, inevitably, the unwelcome memory of Viserion's combusted body falling from the sky had erected itself in her mind—an obstruction, a monument of anguish amidst their suddenly entwined lives, like a sharp thorn on a budding winter rose.

Jon had known her well, too, and he knew exactly that her mind had slipped, and where to.

"I'm so sorry, Dany," he echoed, dragging her right back to the pit of mourning she'd wallowed in upon losing her son. _Sons_ , she reminded herself, for Rhaego's ghost had likewise resided in that same darkness.

She merely nodded, wiping away a pair of stray tears, upset she'd wandered down that grim path. Again. Sighing, she pressed on, selfishly wishing to keep him in this moment with her, or else risk losing it, altogether. "I like it, you know."

"Like what?"

"That you're possessive."

"I don't mean to be."

His jaw clenched at the comment, as if he'd been trying to hide the trait from her. If so, he _certainly_ wasn't very good at it. Her first true taste of it happened when Ser Jorah had returned to Dragonstone. Admittedly, it had been a strange sight, indeed. These two kind and honorable fools, butting heads over her affections, only one of which ever truly had a chance at her heart. In fact, there hadn't been a single man in all seven kingdoms—or beyond—who could dare compete for her affections.

"I've... never had someone care for me the way you do," she admitted, watching his pupils retreat to the corners of his eyes in avoidance.

Gulping, he asked for clarification, "What about your husband?"

"My brother sold me to Khal Drogo in exchange for an army. He was a fearsome man, the Khal. For weeks I'd even prayed for the strength to take my own life just to be free of him and his brutish advances."

His eyes flashed with anger. "You didn't love him?"

"I grew to love him out of necessity."

Jon nodded then, his face so blank she had no idea how he'd taken the information. His eyes remained downcast and distant.

"What about you?"

"What _about_ me?"

"You've had lovers before."

Furrowing his brow, he asked, "How can you tell?"

"You knew _exactly_ what to do the moment you got me alone."

His face flushed at the compliment. Clearing his throat, he corrected her, " _Lover_ , not lovers."

"Were you in love with her?" she couldn't help but whisper, as even her voice had been reluctant to ask. Those same pangs of jealousy that had riddled him had now taken root in her.

He nodded, a bit too sadly, letting his gaze wander.

"Where is she now?" she whispered again, even lower, terrified the woman might still be out there, somewhere.

To both her relief and sorrow, he shook his head. A few of his curls fell over his eyes, further shielding them from her. Lifting a hand, she pushed his hair out of the way, realizing his eyes were wet with tears.

"She's gone?"

" _Aye_ ," he croaked.

"Was it a childhood love?" she asked, brushing his cheek, hoping to lure his gaze back to hers.

"No."

"So you were already a man of the Night's Watch?"

He sighed, "Yes."

"Isn't that against your vows?"

" _Yes_."

"Jon..." she said, tracing circular shapes and swirls on his chest with her fingernails.

" _Mmm?_ "

"You also swore an oath to die at your post."

"I'm aware," he curtly said, already she could feel him closing himself off from her again.

Quickly growing exhausted with his short answers, she sought to lighten the mood, "Aren't beheadings customary for those who abandon their watch?"

Instantly, she regretted her words when he met them with a glare, "Beheadings? Isn't _burning_ more your style _?_ "

Unsure how to respond, she merely pressed her lips together. There were few things they disagreed on, but Jon had always been a bit perturbed by the method with which she dealt justice.

"Either way," he continued, careful to adjust his tone to a lighter one, perhaps also regretting the turn the conversation had taken, "I didn't abandon it. I was released."

"But the only release from the Watch is death, I'm told."

" _Yes_ ," he licked his lips, agreeing. "It is."

Jon took her by the hand, flattening her palm over the sickle-shaped scar once more, raising his eyebrows at her, as if pleading _not_ to have to explain it any further. She knew, ever since having seen that scar as his clothes were cut and stripped from his frozen body, that it should be near-impossible for a man to survive such a wound. Though Ser Davos _had_ said he'd given his life for his people, she hadn't taken it _quite_ so literally until Jon blatantly spelled it out for her, having instead, assumed someone simply tried to take his life and failed.

" _How-_ "

"Dany, _please_ ," he interrupted her. "I don't want to get into it tonight."

"Well, that's too bad, isn't it? You've just confessed to having _died_."

His mouth remained a hard line that hadn't budged once, that is, until he heard her sniffle, confirming with a glance that tears had since sprouted in her eyes, stubbornly clinging to her lashes.

"Alright," he yielded. "I'll give you seven questions."

"Why seven?"

He shrugged. "One for each scar."

"Then I'd better make it count," she said, the first curiosity springing to mind. "You died _before_ you went beyond the Wall on your _wight hunt_ , right?"

"Yes. It happened just once, before we met."

She thought to pry more information from him on how he'd managed to pull himself from the lake, or how he managed to find a _horse_ to escape with, but thought it best not to squander the opportunity while he's agreed to provide answers, however limited.

"What did it feel like?"

"What, to be stabbed?"

She nodded.

"Sometimes I can still feel it," he reminisced. "There wasn't much pain, not at first. I was in shock. The pain kicked in on the third or fourth blow, and I remember the sensation of hot blood just pourin' from my gut, over my skin, onto the ground. Until everythin' went cold."

Wincing, she couldn't help but ask, "Were you afraid?"

"Not exactly. In a way, I felt relief. The boy who got me in the heart, though, I felt terrible for lettin' him down. As I lie there dyin', my last thoughts were of my sisters and brothers, and of Ghost."

"A _child_ gave you this one?"

"His name was Olly," he grimaced. "His family was murdered by the free folk, the same people I helped lead through the gates at Castle Black, and into Westeros from beyond the Wall."

Part of her wanted to ask more of Olly, whether or not they had been close, or what he'd meant to Jon. But the bigger part of her was so fixated on his having died, fascinated to learn as much as she could about the experience, itself.

"What was it like to die?"

"Like fallin' asleep, in a way," he explained. "A few vivid memories, or perhaps dreams, until they faded to nothing."

"Nothing? There was _nothing?_ "

"Nothin' at all. Only darkness."

She exhaled, "That scares me."

"Me, too."

"But you're so _fearless_ ," she said, remembering the way, when she tried to rescue him, he'd _nearly_ taken her hand, only to retreat and clear the path for the others to safely climb atop Drogon, first. He'd even freely given his life, shouting for her and the others to leave him behind so that she wouldn't lose a second dragon.

"The only time a man can be brave is when he's afraid."

"A very wise sentiment," she considered.

"It's what my father used to tell us boys."

Daenerys nodded solemnly. Admittedly, she still hadn't known what to make of Lord Eddard Stark, knowing he served as Hand to the Usurper who tried to have her murdered, but, he'd managed to raise four very brave, clever, and honest children. The Starks had, indeed, been a wolf pack much like their sigil suggested—hardly able to let their brother out of their sight now that the four of them had finally reunited in their ancestral home.

"Were you happy to come back?"

" _No_. For better or worse, I'd earned my death."

She wanted to ask _how_ he could believe that, but decided to rephrase it so it wasn't in the form of a question, honestly having lost count of how many she'd even had left. "You can't believe that," she whispered.

"I can and I do. I saw all of it in the eyes of the men who'd dubbed me traitor and drove steel straight through my skin. The hatred in their eyes haunts me worse than even the act of dyin'."

She gulped. " _How_...did you come back?"

"A red priestess performed some sort of magic or ritual. And I... woke up."

Nodding, Daenerys assumed he had meant Melisandre, the mysterious woman in red who came calling on a stormy night at Dragonstone, insisting she and the northern king had a role to play, _together_ , their fates inextricably intertwined. She thought it best not to squander one of her questions to confirm her identity, however.

"How many questions am I at? Six?"

"No. _Seven_ ," he assured her. "That's it."

"But I have one last question."

" _Dany_..." he began to protest.

"You can choose not to answer, but I'm going to ask it anyway."

" _Fine_."

"May I kiss them?" she timidly asked. "Your scars?"

"You want to kiss my _scars?_ "

"Of course."

"Why?"

"Because they're a part of you."

"If it please you, Your Grace," he said with a furled brow.

With granted permission, she pushed herself further down the bed, brushing her fingertips over the small slit above the ridge on his right hip. Jon's body shivered at her caress, humming with pleasure as she swept her lips gently over the reddened mark. She pressed kisses into every last bit of scar tissue comprising the wound, twice over, before moving onto his abdomen.

She kissed her way to the next angled scar in the crease between his toned muscles, providing it with all the same affection, as well as its sister scar that rested not far from his navel. His ribcage was home to two long, curved scars, both of which took extra time to pamper properly. Jon's sighs had been music to her ears as she applied kisses to each, from base to tip, before moving onto the small incision below his heart. His pulse raced against her lips.

Finally, all that remained was the bowed-shaped scar over his heart, the very one she'd saved for last. She relished in the way he quivered from every soft touch of her lips, his sighs verged on whimpers as she freely explored him, _finally_ , after months of carefully dodging the marks she knew had evoked nothing but painful memories of his past.

Heaving one final, heavy sigh just as she finished, Jon closed his eyes as she climbed on top of him. He laughed as she began trailing her lips down the scar over his left eye, before she moved onto the curved scar along the edge of his right brow. Finally, she kissed her way down over his cheek, headed straight for his plump lips. His mouth welcomed her eagerly, even humming in satisfaction as their tongues briefly met.

He tilted his head away from her to breathlessly ask, "What was that for?"

"You said you can still feel it, sometimes," she softly said, tucking his hair behind his ear. "I'd say your memories could use a different imprint to draw from, wouldn't you agree?"

Jon's eyes narrowed, somnolent and euphoric as he fought to keep them open. Lazily, he brought his hand up, twining silver strands around his fingers and even his wrist. "No one's cared for me the way you do, either," he sleepily sighed.

Untangling his hand from her hair, she brought it to her mouth, gently kissing his wrist, the ridge of his knuckles, and even his fingers. By the time she was finished, she glanced at him, only to see he'd already drifted back to sleep.


End file.
